


The One with the Bishop

by LittleHogwartsGirl



Series: Statue 'verse [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleHogwartsGirl/pseuds/LittleHogwartsGirl
Summary: In which there's graffiti and a chase and then the bishop intervenes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've published on my own! Previously I've always had to have my bestie publish it for me, but this time I've actually stepped up to the plate and done the work myself. However, I still want to thank [Effy](http://elloquente.tumblr.com) and [Malin](http://dustintheimpala.tumblr.com) for reading this.   
> This fic happened because Malin and I went to Mass at our local church and the priest was kinda weird so we started talking about Myriel and yeah. Here we are.

Grantaire has long since stopped questioning why he goes along with these things.

It’s freezing, only just February, and he’s standing on a very empty street corner peering down two very empty albeit dark streets, once again look-out to keep his boyfriend out of trouble. (The boyfriend thing is fairly new, and very nice besides. The look-out thing is neither. It has a nice circular feeling to it though, real-life déja vu of the first time they met.)

He stays on the street corner for maybe ten minutes altogether, fifteen if he’s being generous, before he gets too restless and cold to stay. Instead he takes one last look in every direction – still no one around, given that it’s _ten on a Tuesday night_ and people are _asleep_ – and then goes down the street to his right. As he reaches the next street corner over, he begins to hear the familiar whoosh of spray paint.

“How’s it going, lover?” he says as he rounds the corner and then stifles a laugh as Enjolras jumps a foot off the ground and nearly sprays red paint on himself. Some of it stains his trousers.

“Holy shit”, Enjolras says through the mask he’s wearing. “You scared me. Why aren’t you keeping watch?”

“Ever the romantic”, Grantaire says and comes up close to kiss Enjolras on the cheek. It’s still a thrilling experience. “It’s freezing and anyway there’s no one out except us. Can you hear anything at all?”

Enjolras seems to listen for a moment and then rolls his eyes. “Suppose not. But keep an eye out anyway. And stay a couple feet back, you shouldn’t breathe this stuff.” He raises his eyebrows at Grantaire, who still thinks he can see Enjolras smiling beneath the mask.

“Like I haven’t breathed spray paint before.” Even as he’s saying it, Grantaire is backing up to take a look Enjolras’ hard work. “You’re doing well.”

“Thanks”, Enjolras says, and now Grantaire can hear his smile through the mask.

It’s graffiti, there’s no other word for it, but Grantaire is quite proud of it. He designed it himself, though of course Enjolras insisted on being the one to paint it. Grantaire’s arguments for doing it himself, which were mostly based in him being an actual artist and Enjolras mostly just the actual artist’s boyfriend, were shut down because Enjolras didn’t want him to take the risk.

Sure, it’s _technically_ vandalism, but what are the odds that someone will see them?

He stands there for a few minutes, watching Enjolras spraying paint onto the concrete and double-checking the sketch Grantaire made him of the design and then spraying again. It’s a simple political message, in bright red with darker red outlines and some simple shading around the edges.

After five minutes, he has to intervene.

“No”, he says and walks up closer, “don’t do that. Smudge it instead, it’ll be a nicer fade.” He’s pulling his gloves off as he goes and stretches out his hand to gently drag the wet paint into a more subtle gradient.

“You’ll get paint on you!” Enjolras protests. “Put your gloves back on, it’s cold.”

Grantaire ignores him in favour of smudging more of the paint. “Spray more here, it’s too dry to smudge.”

“Backseat driver”, Enjolras says, low and muffled, but he raises his spray can and sprays away according to Grantaire’s directions.

With their combined efforts, Enjolras spraying and Grantaire smudging, the graffiti comes alive under their hands. It’s what Grantaire loves about art – give it life and it will give it back. Despite the cold and the red paint flecking his hands, he’s feeling warm and proud.

“There”, he says, taking a couple steps back to admire their handiwork. “Nice.”

Enjolras comes to stand beside him and tilts his head so that it’s resting on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Yeah. We’re artists.”

Through the spray paint smell Grantaire can smell Enjolras’ fruity shampoo. “Sure”, he says and doesn’t even pretend not to smirk. “Take that mask off.”

Enjolras does and immediately wraps his arms around him, burying his face in Grantaire’s scarf. “Hello.”

Grantaire laughs. “Hi. Are you gonna come out of there anytime soon?”

The reply is a non-committal noise, and then, “Oh, alright then.” Then Enjolras tilts his face up and smiles at him. “Hi again.”

Even after over a month of dating Enjolras, the realities of it sometimes hit Grantaire like a freight train of possibilities. Just the looks Enjolras directs his way is enough to make him smile, and seeing him smiling like this, close and warm and in his arms, is enough for Grantaire to have to fight off a stupid, besotted grin. Instead he leans down and kisses him, noting cold lips and warm breath, Enjolras’ arms going tight around his waist. Grantaire puts his paint-stained hands on Enjolras’ jaw and the back of his neck and kisses him, again and again and again just because he can. When he pulls back, there are smudged red fingerprints on Enjolras’ cheek and red paint streaked in the blond of Enjolras’ hair.

“Oops”, he says. “I’m not sorry”, he adds after trying to rub the paint off and finding it’s no use.

Enjolras just laughs and kisses him again, bringing his own hands up to card through Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire pulls him closer.

Which is when they hear the familiar voice of a certain police inspector shouting behind them, a good hundred yards away but getting closer by the second. “Vandals! Stay where you are!”

Enjolras grabs his hand and as they set off at a run through the dark streets, Javert at their heels, Grantaire has time to think _Why does this keep happening?_

They turn a few corners and run down three alleys, but Javert never loses track of them. As they double back through a long, narrow alley near the church, Grantaire begins to worry that they’ll actually get caught. This time they can’t hide behind pretenses of alley makeouts, as there is fairly obvious red paint on both his hands and on Enjolras’ face. He can’t even put his gloves back on to try and hide his hands, as he left them behind on the ground in front of their graffiti.

“This way”, Enjolras says, voice barely more than heavy breathing, and pulls him around another corner.

They’re in the cemetary before he knows it, criss-crossing between tombstones and ducking in hopes of concealment. Grantaire sends up a few apologetic prayers to the spirits of people buried here, asks them to forgive the students running from justice and trampling the grass on their graves in the process.

“Here”, Enjolras pants and ducks into the archway of the church gate.

“Are you crazy”, Grantaire manages between breaths, “Javert’s religious, he knows this place like his back pocket–”

“I know, I  _know_ ”, Enjolras says and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the church wall. “I’m so sorry, R, this isn’t what I wanted from tonight.”

“What, being arrested?” Grantaire says and has to smile fondly. He’s a master at resigning himself to unpleasant fates. “No, not my idea of the perfect date either.”

Enjolras smiles a ghost of a smile as they begin to hear heavy footfalls outside in the cemetary.

“Come inside, boys. It’s freezing.”

Were this not a night of literally being chased by the police, Grantaire would have enough energy left in him to be surprised at the old-man voice coming from behind him. As it is, he throws a glance over his shoulder, sees the elderly priest (Bishop, he tells himself, he’s a bishop, not a priest) smiling at them patiently, and pulls Enjolras into the church without a second thought. The door closes heavily behind them.

“Hi”, Grantaire says to the bishop, “Your Excellency. Or, um, Monseigneur?” He hasn’t interacted with a lot of bishops in his day, and he’s not quite sure about the terminology.

The bishop, gray-haired and kind-faced, keeps smiling and yet manages to project some kind of vague disapproval. Grantaire wants this guy’s control of his facial expression.

“Myriel if you can bear it, Father if you cannot.” The bishop sighs, still smiling. “All these titles are mostly confusing, I find. Better to address me as a simple priest, and avoid giving me a superiority complex in the process.”

“I promise there’s an explanation for this”, Grantaire says and makes the vaguest possible gesture to himself and Enjolras, disheveled and stained with paint. Enjolras is panting still, leaning against the door. “It might not make a lot of sense, but there is one.”

The bishop chuckles gently. “I don’t doubt it. Will you come inside for tea? I know it’s late, but I find it soothing.”

Only now does Grantaire notice that the white robe the bishop is wearing is a regular bathrobe, not whatever kind of robe bishops usually wear. Either they woke him up, or he’s a night owl, or he’s just a bit of a weirdo. Grantaire seems to remember the last theory to be true, but he’s okay with that.

“Enj?” he says and waits until Enjolras opens his eyes before continuing. “Tea?”

It takes a few seconds for Enjolras to regain his senses, and his manners, but then he quickly glances at the door outside which Javert is no doubt still lurking. “I would love tea, Father. It’s cold outside, after all.”

The bishop is still smiling gently, but Grantaire thinks he can see a faint smirking quality in it. It’s hard to tell with bishops. “This way. I have a few extra cups for these occasions.”

They make it about thirteen feet before there is a heavy, though muted, knocking at the door. Grantaire feels his heart skip far too many beats to be healthy, and his hand in Enjolras’ grows instantly warm with nervous sweat. He in no way doubts the identity of the knocker.

The bishop becomes Grantaire’s favourite person as he says, “You two continue around the corner and up the stairs. I’ll be up shortly.” He leaves them and walks back towards the door, very slowly.

Grantaire and Enjolras exchange a look and then bolt around the corner. Grantaire is halfway up the stairs when Enjolras pulls him to a stop. The gesture he makes to his ears and the general direction of the door makes it fairly clear that he wants a good vantagepoint for eavesdropping. He pulls Grantaire a little closer and then stands still. If Enjolras were a cat, Grantaire is pretty sure he’d be able to see his ears swivelling in search of sound.

The door opens. “Good evening, Inspector”, they hear the bishop say. “The law truly never sleeps.”

“That it doesn’t, Monseigneur”, Javert says, and they can hear his boots on the marble floor. Thankfully, he only seems to take a few steps. “I am looking for two delinquents who’ve been defacing our city only a few blocks away.”

“Oh dear”, the bishop says. Grantaire thinks he can hear the swishing of his bathrobe. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Graffiti”, Javert scoffs.

Enjolras looks like he might reveal their position for the chance to interrupt and tell Javert that it’s not _graffiti_ , it’s _political street art_ and besides the city belongs to the people and the establishment cannot keep-

Grantaire, knowing Enjolras well enough to practically see the rant forming in his mind, places three fingers gently over his boyfriend’s mouth. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that being able to do it makes his heart flip in his chest. He smiles at Enjolras and feels Enjolras’ lips twitching in return under his fingers. His heart flips again and he’s not sure how long it takes him to tune back into the conversation they’re listening in on.

“Did you get a good look at them, at least?” the bishop says.

Grantaire begins to experience a heavy, sinking feeling. If the bishop realises his tea guests are actual criminals–

“One blond”, Javert says, and his boots start clickety-clacking on the floor again. “The other with a hat on, both male, at least from a distance. I didn’t get a look at their faces, but if I catch them tonight the evidence will be clear. I know how those aerosol cans work, there’ll be paint all over them.”

Since they’re in a church, Grantaire begins mentally reciting the Lord’s prayer. _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name... Shit, what comes next? Thy kingdom come?_ He’s not sure if you have to believe for prayers to work, but it’s worth a shot. Beside him, he can see Enjolras’ eyes darting every which way looking for an exit and finding none.

“Oh, then I can only wish you luck, Inspector”, the bishop says. “And may the Lord help you on your way.”

Grantaire begins to release his breath, slowly, when the bishop adds, “Will you come inside for a cup of tea before you continue your chase? I’m sure the vandals will not wander far from the scene of the crime.”

Grantaire starts his prayers up from where he left off. _Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven... Damn it, what comes after that?_ As he wonders if using ‘damn’ in a prayer lessens its effect, Javert speaks again.

“No thank you, Monseigneur. As you said, the law never sleeps, and neither shall I until I bring these vandals to justice. Good night to you, Monseigneur.”

“Good night, Inspector”, says the bishop. “And may God bless you.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, the thud of the door closing, and then the bishop reappears at the bottom of the stairs.

“Quite late to be searching for vandals”, he says calmly and walks past them up the stairs. “Now come upstairs. The kettle will have gotten cold, but it won’t take long to re-heat.”

Only after they’ve sat down on a soft and slightly musty old sofa with a cup of tea in front of each of them does Enjolras speak. “Thank you, Father”, he says and then takes a sip of tea. His left hand is resting on Grantaire’s right. Grantaire is very okay with this.

“For the tea?” the bishop says. “No matter. Everyone is welcome here, particularly on cold nights like this.” He drinks from his mug, a big blue one with a floral pattern.

“Even vandals?” Enjolras says and raises a sharp eyebrow. Grantaire chokes on his tea, partly because of Enjolras’ remark but mostly because the one-eyebrow raise shouldn’t be as attractive as it is and he’s momentarily stunned.

The bishop only smiles. “Even vandals. Speaking of, do you want to wash that paint off before leaving? It cannot be very comfortable.”

Enjolras raises his right hand and touches the red fingerprints on his face. “I’d forgotten. Maybe we should though, if Javert is still out there.”

“I’ll risk it”, Grantaire says and shrugs. He’s gotten paint off his skin before. “I have stuff at home I can use. Thanks though, Father M. Does Father M sound okay, by the way, or is that too informal?” He’s beginning to get rather attached to the whimsical old bishop.

“That will do fine”, the bishop says and takes a sip of his tea. When he lowers his mug again there’s something shrewd in his expression. “How come I haven’t seen either of you fine upstanding gentlemen at mass?”

It’s only after he begins laughing, several seconds of silence later, that Grantaire realises the old man is joking. “I’ll make it some day”, he promises, and means it too. If nothing else, the church is very beautiful and has an incredible painted ceiling he’s been meaning to get a closer look at. “I think it’s time I took this one home, though.” He nudges Enjolras, who’s half asleep next to him.

“I hear vandalism these days is tiring”, the bishop agrees and stands up to see them out. Once at the door, he shakes both of their hands.

“Thanks, Father M”, Grantaire says. He has one arm around Enjolras’ waist as there seems to be a risk of sleepwalking. “For the tea, and everything.”

“Anytime”, says the bishop. “And God’s blessing on you both, if you don’t mind terribly.”

“Thank you”, Enjolras says sleepily. It’s impossible to tell if he means thank you for the blessing, for the tea, or for saving them from Javert.

“Do come back”, the bishop says and opens the door for them. “Goodnight.”

They make it to Grantaire’s flat without incident, and Enjolras wakes up a little in the cold night. By the time they’re taking off their shoes and jackets, he’s almost back to normal.

“Sorry for falling asleep on you”, he says a little sheepishly while waiting for Grantaire to take his scarf off. He still has red paint on his face.

“You’re cute when you’re sleepy”, Grantaire replies and pulls him into a hug. It’s warm and familiar and wonderful. “Let’s get the paint off before bed.”

They’ve fallen into a comfortable routine as a couple, and Grantaire no longer feels strange sharing his space or sleeping next to Enjolras (though that may mostly be because Enjolras is the clingiest sleeper he’s ever met, and the cuddles are immensely relaxing). Tonight, Grantaire goes first into his small bathroom and starts rummaging for the lotion he uses to get paint off his face.

“Lotion?” Enjolras says and raises an eyebrow. Again, Grantaire has to take a moment to notice how hot it is before he can carry on the conversation.

“It’s gentler than acetone”, he says and pulls a bottle of just that out of a cupboard. “You’re not putting acetone on your face.”

“Oh, but it goes on your hands?” Enjolras says, though he stands still as Grantaire begins spreading lotion on Enjolras’ jaw and cheek.

“Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.” Grantaire smirks and smears an extra gratuitous dollop of lotion on Enjolras’ nose, just because he can; just because this is his boyfriend, and he’s allowed to touch and be silly and stand in his space and hold his hand, and he’s allowed to be the one to leave messy red paint prints on his face, and then the one to wipe them off at the end of the night, and in the process tease him by putting lotion on his nose.

This particular plan backfires as when Enjolras leans in to kiss him, the only real result is that his lotiony nose smears all over Grantaire’s cheek, which just makes them both laugh and leads to very little kissing.

“Now leave that on for a while”, Grantaire says and wipes his cheek on his hand, and then washes his red hands with acetone. They end up dry and flecked with white residue instead, but he washes it off with water before reaching for a towel and tossing it at Enjolras.

“Hey!” Enjolras catches the towel and looks at him. “This for me?”

“Wipe your face, you’re all greasy”, Grantaire says, and laughs and runs away when Enjolras swats at him with the towel.

The paint comes off Enjolras’ face in the end, and they brush their teeth, and Enjolras insists on Grantaire moisturising his hands before going to bed.

“You get all rough from all the acetone”, he says and kisses Grantaire’s hands one at a time. “It sounds nice in theory, but mostly it’s just scratchy.”

“Okay”, Grantaire says and kisses Enjolras on the cheek for good measure. “Yes, very soft”, he confirms, and then rubs plenty of lotion into his hands before joining Enjolras in bed.

“You’re the best”, Enjolras says as he moves closer, throwing one hand over Grantaire’s waist and putting his head onto Grantaire’s shoulder. His hair gently tickles the underside of Grantaire’s jaw. “Thanks for coming with me tonight. And, you know, sorry we almost got arrested.”

“But we made friends with the bishop”, Grantaire points out, and they laugh together.

“And had tea with him.” They laugh again.

“And I think he saved us from being arrested?”

“Also, was it just me, or was he in a bathrobe?”

“He was. Strange man. I liked him.”

“Me too. Goodnight, R.”

“Goodnight, Enj.”

He kisses the top of Enjolras’ head, and then his forehead, and his nose. Enjolras turns his head and kisses his mouth.

“Thought you were tired?” he says against Enjolras’ lips. Then he kisses him again, quickly.

“Not unless you are.” Enjolras kisses him again, just as quickly, and Grantaire can feel his smile.

Before they got together, he never thought he’d see this side of Enjolras, wasn’t sure there was a side like this to Enjolras. He can’t find it in himself to complain as Enjolras kisses him once more, slower and deeper and calmer, so he wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist and pulls him as close as possible. It’s a good end to a surprisingly good night.

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, it’s to three newspaper notifications, three Snapchat ones, and seven texts. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows the reason for his sudden popularity, so he wakes up Enjolras before he unlocks his phone.

“What?” Enjolras grumbles into his pillow and turns his head to glare at Grantaire. His morning glare is a force to be reckoned with.

“It’s morning”, Grantaire says and leans in, kisses him gently, pulls back, “and I think we’ve gone viral.”

Enjolras perks right up at that and curls up against Grantaire’s side, warm and solid and smiling. His morning glare is gone, although if that’s the cuddling or the hope of Internet stardom is anybody’s guess. Grantaire hopes for the former.

The newspapers all write about the ‘mysterious graffiti artist who struck in the night’. Two of them have the same picture of a chagrined-looking Javert and the same quote: ‘unfortunately no leads, and no indication of who might have done it. Anything the public can tell us will be helpful’.

Enjolras snorts. “Nothing about what we look like, since he’d have to reveal that he let us get away. He’s such a–”

Grantaire puts a hand over his mouth. He loves listening to Enjolras rant, loves a lot of things about Enjolras actually, but there’s a time and a place for a rant about Inspector Javert and Grantaire’s bed at eight in the morning isn’t it.

The snaps are all from Courfeyrac, pictures of cans of spray paint under Enjolras’ bed. All three snaps have the screaming cat emoji obscuring half the picture.

“He’s an idiot”, Enjolras says, and then steals Grantaire’s phone out of his hand to send back a selfie. He takes Grantaire’s hand and curls his own hand around it to be able to use it to flip off the camera.

“You’re an idiot”, Grantaire retorts, and steals both a kiss and his phone back.

Three of the texts are from Éponine, all of them screenshots of the articles and fake threats (at least Grantaire hopes they’re fake) of turning him in.

“Why does everyone think you did this on your own?” Enjolras complains. “It was my plan.”

“Do you want me to credit you next time we illegally graffiti something?” Grantaire smirks at him and strokes the edge of his shoulderblade through his shirt.

“Shut up.” He sulks until Grantaire kisses him again.

The next three texts are from Jehan, saying in order ’ _R you didn’t_ ’,‘ _we’ve talked about this_ ’ and then, ten minutes after the second, ‘ _don’t let Parnasse encourage you_ ’. That one doesn’t make much sense until Grantaire reads the last of his texts, which is indeed from Montparnasse and was sent two minutes before Jehan’s last one. The message just says ‘ _nice_ ’.

Grantaire laughs at it for three minutes straight while Enjolras looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. “I cannot believe you’re my boyfriend”, he says. Even as he’s speaking, his burgeoning smile betrays him.

Grantaire forces the last of his laughter to die in his throat before speaking. “Aw, c’mon, aren’t I a good boyfriend?”

He means it as a joke, but Enjolras blushes bright pink and pretty. “Yes, you are. Very much so.”

He smiles up at Grantaire, who suddenly feels a little lightheaded with affection. “So are you.”

Grantaire tugs Enjolras closer and kisses his hair. He’ll gladly spend every night in the cold and the dark being chased by police if it means he can have every morning like this, soft and warm and at peace, in bed with his boyfriend. He says as much, and Enjolras smiles into his chest.

“Me too.” It comes out muffled against Grantaire’s collarbone, and Enjolras strains forward to reach far enough to place a kiss on his neck as well. “Me too.”

Grantaire smiles, runs a hand through Enjolras’ hair, and thinks, _Things are good_.


End file.
